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Chapter 5, Part 7 ~ A Time to Plant, and a Time to Pluck Up That Which is Planted
The papers and pen had appeared again, as they so often had when Beth was not occupied with other things. Mrs. Taylor did not ask of her work; she rather hoped that Beth was composing - perhaps with great difficulty and deliberation - letters to whatever family or friends she did have. Beth's evasions on this score had only served to persuade Mrs. Taylor that the girl was not so abandoned or friendless as she made herself out to be. However, she had kept her counsel these weeks, in hopes of gaining Beth's trust to such an extent that the girl would, at some time, confide in her, and be reconciled to her connections, wherever and whoever they might be, and despite the circumstances and history which had led Beth to her present situation. Whatever the reasons, Mrs. Taylor was willing to wait, only hoping and praying that worthy people might not be pained past endurance by Beth's disappearance and long absence.
Today, with a driving rain rendering the scenes from the windows uninteresting, and discouraging any inclination to exercise, Beth's attention wandered from thought to thought as she turned through the fast-filling pages before her. Instead of the words Mrs. Taylor expected there, they were covered with figures, figures from the scenes now surrounding Beth, as well as a few from the early weeks when her adventure - or misadventure, rather - had begun. Scenes from the preceding months passed through her mind, and she smiled - sadly at times, and with a few tears gathering in her eyes - as she saw her slowly-changing ideas and fancies played out in her renderings. A few older sheets had been placed between the other pages, with sketches of Cecily and Mr. Robertson, and 'John,' of course. He had not wanted to sit for her, would not have, in all probability, agreed to be thus rendered, but Beth had found that she was able to draw a face, especially his face, though not constantly before her. And so, there he now was. Beth had stopped feeling the anger, deep hurt and betrayal she had once felt at his behavior towards her; the anger and shame she now felt were all for herself: for her naiveté and blindness. Now she could look upon this face, and only wonder a little, that she had sunk herself so low, simply to gain, and to keep, as she had so mistakenly thought, the favor and attentions of such a handsome, well-favored gentleman.
Page after page, more faces emerged, to be replaced by yet other faces and figures. Her renderings were very good, the faces quite recognizable, had anyone cared to look. Mrs. Taylor and Jenny, just returning from a Sunday service, were there, with Jenny in her favorite blue pelisse and bonnet; Miss Rose and Miss Ross, arm in arm, walking and smiling, in obvious enjoyment of their surroundings; Hannah, with smudged face, yet cheerful, as she cleaned some vegetables just brought in; Hannah, again, sitting at her father's feet, reading to him by the light of the fire. Lord Auldbury had been drawn holding his instrument, eyes closed, as if in that ethereal moment of silent contentment at the end of a moving piece of music. Even Mr. Grahame had been included, though somewhat fancifully, with a cape swinging from his shoulders - a cape such as he had surely never donned - cunningly hiding the left side of his person, while his right hand was raised to touch his hat - a hat he seldom, if ever, wore; though it was, of course, reasonable to assume he owned such a one. Other new village acquaintances, children, and scenes around the neighborhood filled out her drawings.
Beth mused about the people she had thus far met in Auldbridge, and how, over the past weeks, many long-cherished notions, romantic and fanciful, had had to be abandoned, supplanted by truer ones. Instead of old spinsters, poor as to purse, doomed to be the butt of countless jokes, and made ridiculous by eccentricities becoming only more pronounced with the years, she had found generous-hearted, forgiving, joyful women, useful to and beloved by many. In the place of a 'simple' woman, one who was more capable than Beth, in ways of which Beth had recently been given ample proof. A plain, awkward girl was rendered beautiful by her sweet and cheery manner, and shown to be a valued companion to a father many years her senior. A man, though maimed, rather than being an object of pity, could be a graceful, attractive, hearty gentleman, all the while in the serious and dedicated service of an awesome God. Wonder of wonders - a humble member of Society was to be found! finding joy and pride not in his riches or position, but in the expression of beautiful sounds, performed only in private, and in condescending to do good for others. And, much to her own consternation and ruin, a handsome face and person had been unmasked to reveal a scoundrel, true to nothing and no one but himself.
The tears this last thought had called forth dried quickly, and her mouth curved in an amused grin, as she recalled the newest notion that had entered her mind, only several days earlier, at a meeting most unexpected and unusual. Mrs. Taylor and Jenny had been invited to tea with Mr. Johnson and his family, in their quarters at the Hall, but Beth had demurred at the invitation kindly extended to include her. She had preferred to pay a call on Miss Rose, who, she had known, was also alone, Miss Ross having been called to a farm on the outskirts of the village to attend a woman in her confinement, and not having been expected to return soon...
It was a beautiful day, and Beth reveled in the glorious air as she slowly made her way to Miss Rose's cottage. She was greeted warmly by that lady, and Beth looked around curiously as she walked into the house, not having had much opportunity before of examining the rooms at leisure. She noted how easily Miss Rose made her way through each room, and how carefully all was arranged, with nothing left carelessly low to the floor which could catch her unawares and be a stumbling block to her. Miss Rose ran her hands along the furnishings or walls as she moved, but with fingers barely touching the surfaces, and inquired whether Beth would care to join her for tea. Beth, surprised at the offer, but not wishing to give offense, accepted, and was led to the kitchen. She watched with keen attention as the woman filled a kettle, set it to boil, and went on to prepare tea things, never faltering in her movements, assembling tea, pot, cups, saucers and spoons, milk and sugar, and even adding some biscuits from a tin, with as little fuss as anyone Beth had ever observed who was possessed of perfect eyesight. She now understood what Hannah had remarked on when first speaking of this woman, how much she was able to accomplish, despite her circumstances. Very much and very well, indeed! When the tea was ready, the only concession Miss Rose made was to allow Beth to carry the tray to the parlour, explaining that she normally took her tea in the kitchen when alone, but that that would not do for a guest!
During tea, they spoke of many things: of Miss Rose's pupils, past and present, with some amusing stories about many, told, though, with no malice, simply amusement and insight into the unique characters of each one. She asked about Beth's own schooling, and recognized, with approval, the school at which Beth had been placed, naming several of the mistresses as particularly well-learned in some area or other. Beth, never having thought of her schoolmistresses as persons in their own right, but rather as taskmasters to be pleased if possible, and nuisances or busybodies to be avoided at all other times, found herself considering them in a new light, and more than a little ashamed at her own behavior toward them, and the lack of application in her studies. She blushed, in particular, as she recalled having once hidden the spectacles of one mistress, who, forced to do without them, and being very nearsighted, had stumbled through the ensuing hours until they had been mysteriously restored to her.
Beth again carried the tea tray to the kitchen after they had finished, but was not allowed to help with anything further. She returned to the parlour to await her hostess, and spent some time in studying and admiring the watercolours which adorned the walls there, recognizing many aspects of Auldbridge in them. The artist must have lived here, or spent some considerable time here, thought Beth, wondering who it might have been. Miss Rose rejoined her after a brief time, and asked directly if she would care to walk a little, as the day was so very fine, preventing Beth from inquiring about the paintings. Beth hesitated at first; she was not at all sure how well she would be able to accompany and lead Miss Rose, but was heartened by the thought that Jenny did it so easily, and by the confidence obviously placed in her by Miss Rose herself, with such a suggestion.
The lane, which had looked so smooth and clear when Beth walked it alone, and along which Beth had often watched Jenny and Miss Rose walk with no difficulties whatsoever, was suddenly found to be very uneven indeed, and fraught with pitfalls of every sort. Miss Rose stumbled several times, over small projections which Beth had thought of no consequence at all, had not even noticed. Beth apologized profusely each time, and truly tried to watch her steps most carefully, but with little success. Miss Rose struggled valiantly, but lost her balance more than once, and even received a scratch on her cheek from a low hanging rose branch. She offered no reproaches, but was becoming visibly weary, when from behind them came a deep voice. "Good day to you, ladies. May I be of some assistance?" Beth felt the hand resting on her arm stiffen as they slowly turned to greet the gentleman who now approached, with hat doffed. Before them soon stood a tall man, plainly, but immaculately dressed, with wavy dark brown hair, and brown eyes. Miss Rose hesitated a moment before speaking. "Beth, I do not think you are acquainted with Mr. Burke, yet. Miss Beth, Mr. Burke." Beth greeted the newcomer politely, her curiosity now piqued. While Mr. Burke spoke briefly with Miss Rose, an idea entered Beth's mind, and, finding fertile ground in the romantic sensibilities ever having been prepared there, settled itself to sprout and grow. Mr. Burke offered his arms to both ladies, which Miss Rose, again after a hesitation, and with a flush coming to her cheeks, accepted. With Beth on his other side, the three continued on their way. The idea which had entered Beth's mind was further nurtured by the heightened colour - not at all unattractive - continuing on the older woman's face, and by seeing the care and skill with which Mr. Burke led Miss Rose, and with what success he did meet, where Beth had so miserably failed...
The walk had proceeded with no further mishaps to Miss Rose. They had returned to the cottage, at which time Mr. Burke had taken his leave, after bowing politely to each of the women. Beth scarcely remembered of what they had spoken during the walk, or thereafter, but had allowed her own fancy to feed the idea which had sprouted. Perhaps Mr. Burke, being so kind to Miss Rose, and most likely too old for anyone else - why, he must be forty, at least - assuming, of course that he is unmarried... But what would a married man have been doing alone, and with time enough on his hands to accompany us for so long? Thoughts such as these were filling Beth's mind, and she drifted off into her imagination, where she envisioned a happy ending to Miss Rose's sad and lonely life thus far. As her mind wandered, the newest rendering in her burgeoning collection took the form of a tall gentleman, with a small woman on his arm.
Unnoticed by Beth, Mrs. Taylor had entered the room, intending to ask Beth's help in preparing for tea. Seeing her so intent, she moved quietly, not wishing to startle her, and thus came near enough to see what lay before the girl. Well, she though in pleased astonishment, what a talent she has kept hidden here! We shall see what can be done with this. Not wishing to embarrass the girl, nor to betray her discovery, she left the room quietly, then turned and, from the doorway, called to Beth.
Miss Ross was expected to tea this dreary Sunday. A heavy rain had been falling since daybreak and had, by now, rendered the scene outside the cottage windows a blur of dull greens, mixed with the browns and greys of earth and stone and heavily clouded sky. When the nurse arrived, the day seemed somehow less drab, as her manner was so cheerful as to make one forget all but her merry smile and lively, gay conversation. Whatever the weather, whatever her own circumstances, of which she rarely spoke - neither the good nor the bad - her face shone with serenity, goodwill and hope. Her cheer was never irritatingly so, however, for she wept when others wept, as well as rejoicing when they rejoiced.
On this visit, she brought a tiny porcelain teacup for Jenny, one which she said she had found on her travels in Bavaria many years ago. Jenny, delighted with the gift, decided to put it to use immediately. While her mother and Miss Ross disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, to return not long after with two full tea trays, she put Beth to work laying a small table with an assortment of miniature tea things, some fine, some not, some made of china or porcelain, others of tin or carved of wood: cups, saucers, plates, even a diminutive teakettle made of copper, and a sugar bowl and milk pitcher to match. Having added, in completion of her duties, some delicately worked handkerchiefs to serve as napkins, and several doll-sized tin spoons, Beth now waited in anticipation of the 'guests' Jenny would bring to partake of tea today.
Jenny's collection of dolls had begun with a simple rag doll - to replace the filthy one with which she had been found in London - made by the Miss Hetty of whom Beth had such fond memories. She was a large doll, much loved and carried about by Jenny and Jenny's playmates over the years. Signs of wear were evident, and Jenny had confided to Beth that this doll frequently went to 'hospital' some weeks before Christmas, to come home patched and 'well' again on Christmas Eve. Last year had seen her return with a completely new head of hair, made of fine strands of black wool, which Jenny took great delight in braiding and dressing various ways. Beth had her suspicions who the doctors and nurses were who cared for and operated on this particular patient, even going so far as to guess where the hospital was to be found, and had exchanged more than one amused and knowing look with Mrs. Taylor, over Jenny's head, whenever the subject arose.
Today, Jenny brought this doll, as well as several more, which Beth was given the charge of while Jenny gave precedence to her 'oldest' guest. Seating her at the head of the table, in a place of privilege, she announced, "Beth Willison will sit here today." Beth, the young woman, smiled, by now accustomed to being honored in this way, and to having the dolls' names change often, usually in honor of whomever was present, or persons who had lately been brought to her attention. The second doll, with the porcelain head and golden curls, recently presented to Jenny by Lord Auldbury, was seated next to 'Beth,' and named 'Tabitha Ross.' Miss Ross looked over from the conversation she and Mrs. Taylor were having over their own tea, and smiled as well, also recognizing this tribute, having been a frequent recipient of it.
The third and fourth participants at this tea party were a pair of beautifully clothed dolls, brought some years ago by Lord Auldbury, from one of his earlier journeys. The female doll was daintily dressed, in a gown of blue satin, with brown silk hair and delicate white slippers. Wide blue eyes painted on her face were framed with brown lashes and brows, most elegantly and expressively shaped. Her companion was a handsome soldier, dressed in scarlet and black, complete with finely tooled black leather boots, a black cape fastened to the shoulders of his tunic, and a small wooden sword, hung at his side. Beth was curious to see how these would be named, as there were no more guests in the house, at present, to honor. Perhaps the soldier would be 'Lord Auldbury' today - so very apt, as his lordship always carried himself so well, very like a soldier marching to command, and as several of the dolls had been gifts from him - and the other doll, 'Hannah Burns,' though much prettier than the real young woman would ever be, thought Beth privately. As these last two were shown to their places, Jenny said, "and these are Miss Eliza and Lieutenant Brandon."
Beth looked up in shock, her face drained of colour. She stood up awkwardly from where she had been kneeling near the 'tea table,' and swayed slightly before running from the room. Mrs. Taylor and Miss Ross could only stare at each other, all movement suspended, realization dawning in their eyes. The seeds which disturbing familiarity had planted these several weeks ago, watered by daily intercourse and a growing acquaintance and ease, now burst forth full-grown with the fruit of recognition, as both women understood and acknowledged the truth. This Beth was the same small girl, Eliza, they had known over thirteen years ago; she now resembled her mother to a startling extent, though younger and, of course, in much better health than Mrs. Eliza Brandon had been. While the silence between the two women lengthened, and no sound was heard in any other part of the cottage, Jenny chattered on with her dolls and carried on her party, serving each guest in turn, enjoying her own share of tea, and completely oblivious to her part in this revelation, or indeed, to the notion that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.
Chapter 6, Part 1 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
Mrs. Taylor made her way through the hushed cottage, the only sounds to be heard provided by the wind-driven rain against the windows and roof. She stood quietly for a few moments, listening, before knocking gently at the door to Beth's room. She received no reply. She knocked again, then opened the door and entered. Beth was sitting near the window, motionless, staring unseeingly into the dusk, the raindrops streaming down the windowpanes mirrored in the tears running down her face. She did not stir on Mrs. Taylor's entrance and approach.
"Beth, my dear... you are little Eliza, are you not?" she began, in a voice which spoke no real doubt of the answer. "We should have seen it earlier, Tabitha and I, for you are very like your mother."
The girl remained silent for a time, her gaze remaining fixed on the window and the gloomy scene beyond. Mrs. Taylor knelt slowly by her chair and took the small, cold hands, limp and unresisting, into her own.
Beth finally turned from the window - tears still falling, eyes now downcast, unwilling to meet the older woman's penetrating, though kind, regard - and asked, with no emotion in her voice, "What shall you do?"
Mrs. Taylor looked at her consideringly, then asked in turn, "What would you have us do, Eliza?"
"I'm not Eliza! Please don't call me that! Eliza was my mother; I am Beth! I am not my mother, I never was, I never shall be!" Beth pulled her hands out of the warm ones which held them and buried them beneath her apron, turning once again to face the bleak, waning light outside.
The outburst came as a surprise to Mrs. Taylor, who paused, gathering her thoughts, before speaking again. "Very well. What would you have us do, Beth?"
"I don't know," came the reply, in a whisper. "Must anything be done? Can not we go on as before?" The quiet plea held a note of anguish in it.
"I do not think that is possible, Beth. Knowledge can never be undone, especially of such a serious nature, in circumstances such as yours, my dear. We must at least speak of a few things. Then perhaps we can decide, together, what, if anything, we will do. Can you agree to so much?"
At this Beth looked at Mrs. Taylor fully for the first time since that lady had entered the room, searching the face before her for... she knew not what. Her eyes, swollen, red-rimmed and still brimming with tears, were wary; her voice quavered as she replied, hesitantly, "Y-yes."
"Very well, then. But first, if you would, please do come into the parlour again. Tabitha and Jenny have gone to call on Miss Rose, and will not return for some time, so we will be alone there, and more comfortable than my poor knees can hope to be here on this hard floor!" Mrs. Taylor smiled as she spoke, hoping to coax some small reaction to her pleasantry out of the girl; her effort did not go unnoticed or unrewarded. Beth returned her a weak smile at this request, and helped Mrs. Taylor to her feet, before following her out of the room, drying her tears as she went.
The parlour had been cleared of all evidence of Jenny's tea party and her revealing 'guests,' Mrs. Taylor not having wished to renew Beth's distress by their presence.
Once settled comfortably, or as comfortably as was possible, before the fire, Beth turned her gaze on the flames, much as she had done during a previous awkward conversation over one month earlier, and waited for Mrs. Taylor to begin. She was now resigned that some discussion would have to be had on subjects she would much rather not have spoken of at all, but she was hoping to postpone the inevitable for as long as possible, each silent moment seeming a temporary reprieve to be hoarded.
Mrs. Taylor did indeed begin with precisely the questions Beth had been dreading since Jenny's innocent announcement not an hour ago. "Is your uncle, Lieutenant Brandon, still alive, Beth, and is he still your guardian? I did not know him as well as Tabitha did, but I do remember what a kind man he seemed, and very devoted to your mother. Is he married now, perhaps? Is he out of the country?"
Beth sighed, and replied in a flat, low tone, "Yes, he is still alive, but he is a colonel now; yes, he is still my guardian; no, he is not married."
When Beth did not continue, Mrs. Taylor sighed in her turn, sensing that this would be a long, drawn-out process. Patiently, she resumed her queries. "I take it he does not know where you now are, Beth. Does he know of your... situation?"
"No!"
"Did you run away from him, or from some other place? Were you mistreated in some way? Were you--" Mrs. Taylor broke off, and her eyes opened wide, as the thought she suddenly had was too appalling to be put into words.
Beth, seeming not to understand the direction, or implications, of Mrs. Taylor's train of thought, and not noticing the older woman's sudden distress, did not answer at once, but squirmed a little as she considered, and then confessed, the truth. "No, I was always well-treated. I left from Bath, with a friend."
Realization and some understanding lighted the older woman's eyes as she recalled what her brother had told her of Beth's history: left in London... some man... She uttered a silent prayer of thanks, as the horror of her previous thoughts faded. "I see. Does the colonel know this friend?"
"No," came the reply, in a very small voice.
"Beth, why have you not gone back to your uncle? Have you even written him, sent him word of where you are, or that you are well?"
"No; I could not go back! Not now! Not like this! He would be so ashamed, so angry!"
"But, my dear, he must be frantic with worry! He must be imagining all sorts of terrible things that might have happened to you!"
"It is better than having him find me now! I am sure he is better off imagining me dead!" The cry was bitter and heartfelt.
"Beth, that is not true! I am certain that he would want to know of you, no matter what you have done. Any parent - any uncle, any guardian - who loves a child as much as I am sure he does you, would forgive almost anything, just to know that his child were still alive!"
Unmoved, Beth shook her head. "I am sure he would never forgive me, never love me again. How could he? After all he has done! He had such hopes and plans for me. I would only shame him now, and I could not bear seeing his eyes look upon me with disgust and disappointment, abhorrence and anger. I can not return to him now, I can not!"
Seeing the girl's agitation, and that she was firmly convinced of the truth of her words, Mrs. Taylor was silent for a time. She made one more attempt. "I think you are wrong in your judgments of him, my dear. But, if you will not, at least allow me write to him, or Miss Ross, perhaps, simply to relieve him of his anxiety about you. He needn't be told any more; he needn't come here--"
"No!" Beth sprang to her feet. "Please don't write to him! Please don't do anything! If you do, I'll... I'll run away, so he wouldn't find me, even if he did come here!" Her voice rose with each phrase; the pleading changed to a childish defiance, but one that carried the determination of desperation behind it.
Mrs. Taylor had little doubt that Beth would attempt to make good on this rash statement. Indeed, the girl appeared poised for immediate flight. Inwardly, she sighed once more. And this child will soon have a child of her own. Whatever will she do then? She schooled her features to calm. "Beth, I do not agree with you, but, for the time being, we will leave it. I sincerely hope that you will think very deeply on this. Think of what you know of your uncle, of his love and kindness to you, of his forgiveness in the past, which I am sure you have witnessed and felt. Think more of him than of yourself, and see if you can imagine how he is feeling now. Whenever you are ready, I will be happy to stand with you before him, if you really believe he will be so angry. I will say no more, but ask you to think long and hard, my dear." And I will pray that God would soften your heart, and lead you to think more of someone else than you do of yourself, at some time.
"So, she absolutely refused to write to him?"
"Yes, poor thing! She is wrong, of course; but I do understand a little. She has no other family, and he has no wife or children of his own. She has most likely been the center and focus of all his attention over these years, and is obviously a little spoiled. That can be a most difficult position, full of expectations - spoken and unspoken, false and true - and indulgence at some times where discipline or denial might rather have been called for."
"Undoubtedly! I can not tell you the entire story, as I heard much in confidence; suffice it to say that I would be surprised if her uncle should ever marry, and I agree that it may have been difficult, and not entirely healthy, for her, as his ward alone. I pity her for losing her mother - the only family known to her - at so young an age. But, all this is no excuse for the torture she is allowing him to endure simply for the sake of her feelings or her pride! You did not know him as I did, Joanna. He loved little Eliza's mother with a passion I have rarely seen equaled. His promise to her as she lay dying, to care for and raise the little girl - I could scarce keep from weeping myself - if you had heard it, you would not doubt that his love for her would forgive anything she could possibly do, and that his sufferings at her disappearance would be very great, indeed!"
"It is not I whom you must convince of that, my friend; but I fear she will make good on her threat to run away if I write to her uncle. Surely it would do no one good for that to happen! Not the colonel, not Beth, and not the child within her. At least here we can watch over her and see that she comes to no further harm."
"Then you suggest we keep silence?"
"Only for the present, Tabitha. I have told her as much - for my part. I did not promise for you, and I realize you are not bound by it - but I will keep my word. I have great hopes - nay, more than that - that my prayers will be answered, that she will herself come to see her wrongs in this, write to him and ask forgiveness herself."
"I have no doubts that your prayers will be answered, Joanna, in some way or other. I will add mine: that the good Lord would keep poor Col. Brandon from going mad through worry!"
After these exchanges, Mrs. Taylor felt, if not complete satisfaction, then at least peace, for the present, and she redoubled her efforts to help Beth see the forgiveness possible in a family, to help her feel loved and accepted, and worthy of love and acceptance, despite all her faults. She felt sure it would not be long before Beth could be brought to seek reconciliation with her uncle.
Miss Ross, however, felt no satisfaction, nor any peace. Having worked and lived so closely with the colonel for those several months, she had come to know him, and to see the depth of his feelings and character. She could well imagine the pain, and possibly the self-imposed guilt, he would even now be suffering. To allow such to continue was intolerable for her to contemplate, and she did not feel herself bound by the same promise Mrs. Taylor had made to Beth. After weighing all sides, and praying for wisdom for herself, she came to a decision. A fortnight after Jenny's fateful tea party, Miss Ross wrote a letter, addressing it to Col. Brandon. She directed it to his London lodgings - she knew of no other - as best she remembered them after so many years. Thus satisfying the dictates of her own conscience, she joined her friend in attempting to persuade the young lady - not so much by words, but by actions - of the errors in her thinking.
Chapter 6, Part 2 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
Not unlike Miss Tabitha Ross, contemplating her newfound knowledge about the young lady known as Beth Willison, Mr. John Blevins felt little satisfaction or peace surrounding his efforts on behalf of Col. Brandon. While she struggled with the equal claims of compassion and conscience, John, too, had a decision to make. His struggle, however, was between a conscientious desire to pursue every possible avenue of investigation that was offered, and compassion for his client - a desire to add as little as possible to the agony doubtless being suffered by that gentleman.
He had now been twice disappointed in his search for Miss Williams at the same unsavory Inn. However, the information relayed by Tim regarding Miss Eliza - for he was no longer in any doubt that it had been she at the Inn - did offer a new aspect, one which seemed to indicate that his two cases were not so far apart in association as he had originally thought. He studied on the possible implications of what he had heard. Where on earth had the young woman come upon forged money? Her beloved 'John,' the most likely of unlikely sources, was now becoming of interest in more ways than Mr. Blevins might ever have imagined, and an even greater knave than he had considered, sinking ever faster and deeper in John Thomas' opinion, which had never been very high.
Although the news was not encouraging, still, Mr. Blevins finally decided to seek another conference with Col. Brandon, in the slight hopes that this piece of intelligence would open a memory or offer a fresh train of thought for the colonel, which would, in turn, be of help - in finding the young lady, as well as possibly furthering the cause of Lord Cantering.
A note was dispatched, soon answered, and a meeting agreed upon.
For the second time, John found himself in the presence of this man, whose loneliness and sorrow seemed to weigh upon him more heavily than ever. He felt his own frustration rise, at his failure thus far - despite his best efforts - and at his inability to see his way, even now, without assistance of some kind. As such, he bore himself a shade less confidently than at his first meeting with the colonel, when all had seemed possible, and relatively simple.
In contrast to that first inauspicious interview, John found himself cordially greeted, but once again invited to sit, and offered tea. Over the generous refreshment brought, John began.
"Col. Brandon, since my last communication, I have come into possession of some information, which, though not helpful at its appearance, may, I hope, lead to something of greater use." He replaced his cup on the small table next his chair, and continued, leaning forward a little, as though to give greater meaning to his words. "While seeking information on another matter, I was told a tale which, I am firmly convinced, has to do with Miss Williams. I have already communicated to you her supposed intention to travel to Liverpool, and that I was not able to trace her beyond London. I now have confirmation that she did indeed attempt to make this journey, but was prevented from doing so, at least at that time, because the money with which she was to secure a coach ticket was, apparently, forged."
John had looked down as if to consult his notes during the last part of this recital, averting his eyes from those of his listener, unable to bear the look of grief there, but he now glanced up again. With shock did he see Brandon attempt to rise, as a silent ejaculation left his lips, only to fall back in his chair, all colour drained from his face, his upset teacup lying unnoticed on the floor where it had fallen, its contents spreading over, and seeping into, the carpet. John jumped up, and, seeing the extreme pallor of his host's face, the closed eyes, and the beads of perspiration forming on his forehead, ran quickly to the door.
"Ho, you there!" to a young boy who was just passing in the hall. "Fetch Col. Brandon's man, and some wine, or brandy, quickly! Your master has been taken ill."
As the lad, eyes wide with surprise and fright, scurried off wordlessly to carry out these commands, John turned back, to see if there was aught he could do to help. What he saw was encouraging, for the colonel was stirring slightly, and after a few moments more, opened his eyes.
Speaking with an obvious effort, he was able to voice several phrases before falling silent once more. "Forgive me... sir. I... was not... expecting... such news." With this, a masterpiece of understatement, judging by the reaction Mr. Blevins' news had provoked, he closed his eyes again. His valet was soon arrived, and deftly ministered to his master, loosening his neckcloth, and urging some liquid into his mouth. This had the desired effect, as it brought colour back to the pale cheeks, and allowed Col. Brandon to sit up unaided. The servant now remained, though busying himself in a far part of the room, while still eyeing the colonel from time to time, discreetly, assuring himself of his ministrations being efficacious, that nothing further would be needed, and no call for a physician.
Mr. Blevins, who had looked on with grave concern, was now relieved at the improved appearance of his client. "Perhaps it would be best if I returned another time, sir," he suggested.
The colonel, however, reacted strongly to this, and negatived it most decisively. "No, no, I am quite well... simply... taken aback for a time. No, indeed, Mr. Blevins... I must hear all you have to tell. What else do you know?" His voice sounded eager and insistent despite his still laboured breathing.
"In truth, sir, not much more, concerning your niece. I have visited, twice now, the Inn at which her attempts to purchase a coach ticket took place, and, for whatever motive, neither the owner nor his wife will part with a single word about such an occurrence ever having happened. Whether this is out of fear for themselves, for some reason or other, or whether out of pure mean-spiritedness, I can not tell. I will see if there is anyone else who might be able to extract the information from them, or get at more in some other way. Though, for the time being, they will undoubtedly be on their guard, and even less likely to speak of it." Mr. Blevins sighed with regret, still perplexed over how to pursue his inquiries in that place, to uncover the information that was being so zealously guarded there.
"I see," said the colonel, slowly, though not without some exertion.
"My reason for coming here today, was to see if this provides any new ideas for you, sir. There is one other piece of information, which may or may not lead to Miss Eliza immediately, but which may, in some circuitous fashion, provide some clues. It is with regard to this, especially, that I wished to inquire of you. I have reason to believe that the forged money she was carrying may have come, directly or indirectly, through some manner of gaming - not that she was involved in gaming herself, but that the money in her possession may have come from such a source. My question for you has to do with any knowledge, on your part, of gaming halls or clubs in London, where the characters and reputations of all involved might bear scrutiny."
The colonel looked puzzled for a moment, then fell into thought. He finally spoke, with a wry expression on his face. "I have little experience with the clubs in London, or elsewhere, whether for the purposes of gaming or any other; and Eliza, of course, would have none whatever. Mrs. Howell would have never allowed such an acquaintance with vice to be heard of, let alone engaged in, at whatever level. Having met her, even once," the colonel smiled weakly, "I am sure you would agree with me in my certainty on this point." His smile faded as he continued, "When I inherited my father's estate, on the death of my brother, it was much encumbered; he had left it in total disarray, having himself lost much money through gaming and other ventures of equally dubious merit and success. It has taken me these years to make good on his many debts, and to build up the estate once again. If from nothing else than the example of my brother, I would have no taste for such ways of wasting my time and money."
John strove to cover his disappointment. "I can quite understand that, sir, and honour you for it. However, now that you are aware of the possibilities, I would ask that you keep in mind any conversation, gossip or rumours you may happen to hear, or may recall having heard. They could be of great help in finding your own niece, as unlikely a route as that may seem, as well as ultimately ridding the city and countryside of some very unscrupulous and dangerous men, and their handiwork."
The colonel's eyes narrowed as he took in the import of Mr. Blevins' words. "I take it that the forgery itself is of concern to you, then, and not the gaming, as we are unlikely to ever be rid of such... diversions," he added dryly. He lifted his hand to forestall any comment of John's. "No, I understand you could not speak of it. I would not expect it of you. I will only wish you success in this other endeavour of yours, Mr. Blevins, and will hope and pray for its accomplishment. You may be assured that I will give you any assistance in my power to that end, especially in the hopes that it will bring me my little Eliza once more..." The voice, which had been gaining strength, broke anew at this mention of his niece. Taking a breath, he composed himself again. "I will send you word directly should I recall anything to the purpose. Unfortunately, I will be leaving London within the week to travel south. If you have need to communicate with me, please do so by addressing any letters to Delaford. I will divide my time between my estate - I have been too long gone from there - my sister's estate at Whitwell - she and her husband are currently across the Channel - and Barton Park, in Devonshire, the estate of an old friend of mine, Sir John Middleton. Wherever I am, I will instruct my housekeeper to immediately forward any correspondence from you, and to treat it with all urgency."
After little further conversation, John took his leave, mindful of the colonel's weak state. He wondered a little that a military man, surely having been exposed, and possibly accustomed, to all manner of gruesome and terrible sights and experiences, would be taken faint so easily. I hope he has not become ill from the strain of this sorrow over Miss Eliza's disappearance and absence. While acknowledging his own depths of emotion, as yet unplumbed and kept firmly in check, John Thomas Barrow reflected, as well, on the anxiety and pain experienced by those who loved, or allowed themselves to feel, so very deeply. Whether I shall ever find myself in a situation of such fear for someone else? Heaven forbid! he shuddered.
What he could not know of the colonel's circumstances was that Brandon had, many years ago, and most unwillingly, been a witness as a young woman had been hanged. The sight, and the sound, had never left him. Knowing the penalty for forgery, regardless of the gender of the perpetrator, and that even those who claimed their innocence, if found with incriminating evidence, were not exempt from the full weight of the law, was enough. For a few brief moments he had envisioned his own dear little Eliza, with the hangman's hempen noose about her throat. Even now, the vision, though dimmed, would not vanish entirely, and tears filled his eyes and silently overflowed, as he sat alone after the departure of Mr. Blevins, and contemplated his niece's possible fate.
A few days after this interview - his preparations being completed - the colonel left London.
Some time later, a letter arrived, addressed to Col. Brandon, but very much misdirected. After thirteen years, her memory had not served her well, and Miss Ross had inadvertently transposed the numbers of the lodgings, and had written St John's St instead of St James' St. The letter had wandered several weeks around the many neighborhoods of London, until it finally reached its intended destination. The colonel's servants remaining in London, seeing that the letter had been underway for quite some time, and not recognizing the sender as a known acquaintance - in business or friendship - or anyone of importance, laid it aside, to be attended to when the colonel returned to town.
Chapter 6, Part 3 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
Upon leaving the rooms in St James' St, after his disturbing interview with Col. Brandon, Mr. Blevins made his way through alleys and down avenues in some abstraction, still puzzling over the unusual and unnerving reaction of the colonel to his visit. So deep in thought was he that he noticed nothing of his surroundings, until a boot thrust into his way rudely recalled his attention to them. John caught himself from falling into the dirt and grime underfoot only by an inelegant flailing of his arms. He directed a look of reproach upward, and was preparing to add some well-chosen words to accompany it, when his eyes met those of his assailant; the words died on his lips, and his look turned to one of understanding, as well as some chagrin. The offending boot belonged to Tim Scoggins, who, on seeing his employer so deep in thought as to ignore him completely, decided that his expert assistance was called for in returning Mr. Blevins to his present situation and business. The two men - one having adroitly accomplished that which he considered to be his duty, and the other having regained his balance and recalled his whereabouts - continued on their separate ways, to meet again shortly at a previously agreed upon location.
"What were you thinkin' of, Guv'nor? Some one could've robbed you blind and you none the wiser. T'isn't safe to be wanderin' about with your head somewheres else, sir." Tim spoke with concern, reproach and a trace of amusement in his voice. This young master was well learned in many things; yet, in some ways, he seemed very innocent. Hopefully this would not prove his undoing at some time in the future. Tim was very fond of his daily bread and butter, and did not wish to have such a promising and steady source of it taken from him through careless inattention.
"You are quite right, Tim. I should concentrate on only one task at a time, and leave other thoughts for more appropriate occasions and places." John's voice was subdued and penitent, his small smile, sheepish, as he answered Tim's concern, and acknowledged him to be in the right to himself as well. The luxury of musing about the curious and unexpected behaviors of many, whether acquaintance or stranger, would best be indulged in front of a fire or behind a desk, rather than on the busy and unpredictable streets of London. He shook his head as if to clear it completely of irrelevant ponderings, and set his mind to the task at hand.
"So, what news have you for me today, Tim? Something interesting, I hope," he added, with a grin, and a brisk manner, now, of complete and undivided attention, which heartened his companion considerably.
"Well, these men you've asked about, sir - they're a rum lot, they are. Not at all what I'd expected of some of 'em, bein' in Society 'n all. It's been quite an experience hearin' 'bout 'em, and seein' some of 'em, too!"
"So long as you haven't been seen 'seein' ' them, Tim. What sorts of rum things have you heard?"
Tim pulled a battered packet of papers from a pocket, made up of an assortment of odds and ends of all shapes, sizes and origins: the edges of newspaper pages, empty - or nearly empty - pages of discarded books, the remains of finer pieces of paper - a few with some handwriting still visible, and even the edges of an occasional family crest or two. These scraps were covered with a scrawl which John, giving it a sidelong glance, could not begin to read. Tim, after ordering them in a manner and for reasons known only to him, began to list the characters and diversions of the associates of Lord Cantering, as available to common, and some uncommon, knowledge, apparently making out these illegible scribblings with ease. John smiled inwardly. This man, so amazingly gifted and meticulous in perfectly copying whatever had been written by others - though costing him great pains and labour - crossing every 't' and dotting every 'i,' was apparently not so meticulous when writing for his own edification. He raised his brows slightly in wonder, then turned his mind to the histories being imparted to him, pulling out his own papers - of a more orthodox assemblage - that he might himself retain the pertinent facts.
The information was as varied as the persons and their families themselves: some new, some old, some of solid reliable cloth, some most probably fabricated out of whole cloth by some connection or other; first- and secondhand news, rumours, facts and gossip all mixed together.
Mr. Edgar Rainham, though wealthy, was said to be a mean, parsimonious man, treating all his animals better than any human. He purchased the cheapest things possible for himself and all his household, haggling with and browbeating vendors and shopkeepers mercilessly over price, while priding himself on his thrift. He had no debts, nor any unusual habits that could be found or heard of. His wife was reputed to suit him admirably - no discord was known to exist between them - she being as miserly as he. They were equally despised, though grudgingly acknowledged to be scrupulous in observing the letter of the law in every financial transaction.
Sir Daniel Eckington, on the other hand, was heavily in debt to many in town. His wife was said to spend extraordinary amounts in acquiring all the latest fashions in dress - was said never to wear a fine gown more than once, to employ almost as many seamstresses as the Queen herself, and to have more pairs of shoes than even an errand boy or patterer could hope to wear, or wear out. Their London house was re-fitted regularly, also in keeping with the very finest and newest to be had. Nothing passé was countenanced nor long retained in that establishment. Whether the same standards were maintained at their country estate was not known, as no servants from there, nor, unhappily, rumours, accompanied the family to town. How the Eckingtons were managing to keep the financial wolf from their very elegant, polished doors, was a mystery.
Mr. Charles Stockley was a newcomer to London Society, and still much looked down upon by many, having acquired his sizeable fortune only recently. He was reputed to have more money than could possibly be spent - over £15,000 per annum - and, what was puzzling, had been accepted into several clubs, and been seen in several salons, where men of his recent elevation in wealth rarely were - his uneducated country-born wife even invited into some of the best-known homes in Society! He was also said to have a fondness for fine music, and sponsored concerts at the Hanover-square Rooms, or in Tottenham Street, or other such venues, with whatever musicians could be enticed to London by means of the persuasions made possible by overabundant wealth.
Lord Thomas Barking was another noble who had fallen upon hard times. Much of his wealth and many of his investments had had to do with French trade, and had been lost, seized, or otherwise diminished during the turmoil and wars of the past five and twenty years. Fortunately for him, and his numerous children - there were rumoured to be an even dozen, at least - he was expected to inherit a large estate entailed on him from a distantly related uncle, who was in very poor health - expected to die at any time - which sad occasion the Barkings were anticipating with great interest, evinced whenever a letter from that part of the country arrived.
Of Sir Isaac Feldridge, Mr. Lewis Chase and Lord Archibald Latham, Tim had, as yet, heard little out of the ordinary. They had neither extraordinary debts, nor unaccounted-for wealth, pursued neither unusual diversions, nor made their presence unduly felt at the usual venues frequented by the Ton. Whether the reason be that there was little to know of these men, or something to be kept hidden, he would most certainly find out. Of this assertion John was in no doubt, and was equally confident that were there anything to discover, Tim would do so, though John preferred not to think of the methods that might be put to use in the process, simply hoping his invaluable confederate would survive unscathed to share his results and continue in the work he was so admirably suited to.
Tim paused in his recitation to look up at John and grin widely, "The next one's a real oddity, Guv'nor: Lord Goosely, lately come by the title, after the death of his father. They weren't on very good terms with one another - the son hadn't lived or even visited much in London 'til the father'd passed on - but the stories about 'em both! The father must've been a bit touched at the end, for it's said that he saved everythin', never threw anythin' away. He wore clothes and shoes with holes in 'em, even though he had perfectly good new things made and delivered. He saved every scrap of paper, and tied 'em in bundles to be used again." At this mention, though tempted, John forbore to look at the numerous bits of paper in Tim's own hand, and wondered whether there was not the slightest touch of envy in that man's voice. "Gifts and things that'd been sent or given him were all left sittin', unopened. He even saved food that was left over from meals - not to eat, or to give away, just to save - and for much longer than could have been reasonably expected! They do say the smell of the house after he died was not to be believed! Took 'em sev'ral weeks in winter to have it properly aired out. The rubbish heap alone would've filled ten wagons, easy, accordin' to the bootboy. What's the cap - the son, the current Lord Goosely, seems to be havin' the same tendencies already, and him not so old yet! though he is unmarried; a wife probably wouldn't stand for any such goin's on! Imagine! and him worth £5,000 a year, at the very least!"
John smiled in amusement, and with pity, for such habits, and wondered what might have been the reason for them. Perhaps a time of poverty or desperation earlier in the life of the old Lord, returned to, even if only in his mind, as his mental faculties began to weaken. With such lives, neither father nor son sounded to be candidates for leading roles in crime of any sort; but, he would keep an open mind for the present. Criminals might be as apt as any other persons to possess quirks and eccentricities of the oddest sorts.
Tim was consulting his notes once again, but broke off his perusal of them, as if suddenly reminded of something. "Say, Guv'nor, if you've got the time, you should see the next old gent on the list in person - he's got to be seen to be believed. If he's any part of the artistry we're lookin' for, then he ought also to be on the stage - he could maybe make an even better livin' there, and be known for generations to come, just like Mrs. Siddons, or even the Bard himself!"
Mr. Blevins looked a little doubtful, but was interested in spite of his misgivings as to the wisdom of this suggestion. Tim rarely showed such enthusiasm for John to literally follow in his own footsteps, and, as John thought further, was unlikely to knowingly lead either of them into danger, being well-acquainted with all levels and areas of London. John also recalled that, though he was not to contact or speak with any of these gentlemen directly, no embargo had been placed on observing them - discreetly, of course. Rather than keeping company and appearing together with Tim in a more open part of town, John went alone, well-instructed by his associate in what he was to look for, and soon found himself at the appointed place. On the hour, just as Tim had predicted, a gentleman of some unusual appearance took leave of White's, and proceeded slowly down the avenue. He was a tall man, old, apparently, if the abundance of pure white hair under his hat could be credited as any indication, and was beautifully and tastefully dressed. As he moved, he carried his head somewhat forward, peering very carefully about him.
The next twenty minutes saw John occupied chiefly in suppressing his laughter, and in remaining upright when that suppressed mirth threatened to send him rolling to the stones on which he stood. Sir Peter Woolwich would indeed be a master on the stage if he were anything but what he showed himself to be this afternoon. Scarce had he emerged from the gentlemen's club, when a street vendor passed: a young girl, with bunches of flowers carefully tied and laid in a barrow, covered with a gauzy material, lightly dampened. The white-haired gentleman cheerfully tipped his hat and bowed to the girl, before proceeding to compliment her on the fine young child she was taking for an airing, adding his approval of how clean and sweet-smelling the baby was kept. Not long after this encounter, another young woman came along, clearly a servant returning from some errands, with clothing much worn, almost ragged, carrying several parcels tied with string,. This woman was equally cheerfully greeted as, "Lady Percy," and offered a low, graceful bow as she passed. This bow left him dangerously close to the path of traffic, and only the quick wits of a well-dressed young gentleman, just having quit White's himself, saved the older man from the hooves of a high-spirited horse.
As the Baronet wandered farther down the busy thoroughfare, not keeping his way as close to the buildings as might have been desired, he strayed into the path of a wagon. He, not seeing, or paying no mind, was almost run over by this vehicle as well, and was pulled back at the last moment by a rough hand to his shoulder by yet another passerby. Sir Woolwich did not seem to have noticed his danger, nor his rescue, in either of these instances. He now stepped back and lifted his hat to his rescuer in all innocence; then, turning to see the wagon, raised it again in salute to the driver, who, with pale face upon which was etched the relief of not seeing this elegant - but clearly mad! - gentleman under his wheels, simply drove on, obvious puzzlement at the familiar and hearty greeting offered vying with the relief on his countenance.
John Blevins himself was now in the direct path of this most amiable gentleman. As he came closer, it could be seen that, despite the white hair, his face was hale, and almost youthful, with eyes of an odd colour. Mr. Blevins, too, received a nod and smile, this attention resulting in the gentleman colliding with a lamppost - which inanimate object then received a most handsome apology, and a low, elegant bow, in its turn.
John's eyes began to water from his exertions, as a woman - of dubious charm and beauty but quite certain character and occupation - standing as if waiting for something, or someone, was noticed by Sir Woolwich. As the gentleman approached her, her face lit up in anticipation, her eyes calculating, eagerly taking in the appearance of the richly dressed man who seemed bent on an evening, or, at the very least, a few hours, of pleasure. She primped and showed herself to best advantage in the few moments of his approach. From his vantage point, John could not make out the conversation between them, but could not miss, nor mistake, the look of absolute stupefaction coming over the woman's face, as the Baronet took her arm, conducted her to, and then handed her into, a fine carriage just come up, bearing a handsome family crest. Mr. Blevins did hear the very clear salutation offered, as the gentleman turned, while touching his hat, to continue on his own way, "My very best regards to his lordship, my dear. Do offer my sincerest and most heartfelt condolences to your mother, as well!" It was difficult to judge who was the more shocked of the persons remaining behind him as he turned and continued on his way, whether the woman now sitting in the carriage of the Earl of Matlock, or the original occupants of that carriage.
John did not wait to see more of this scene, as he now found it most prudent to make his way home as quickly as possible, before drawing any undue attention to himself. Unless something extraordinary shows itself, I think we can safely eliminate Sir Woolwich from our list of suspects! But... then again... Such an elaborate act might prove to be just that. Sir Woolwich would continue to bear watching, as would the other eight gentlemen on his list. John would eliminate no one from suspicion without considerably more in the way of substantiated facts than he had thus far.
Thinking over the fruits of his meeting with Tim, as well as the earlier one with Mr. Scribney, the picture being formed seemed to shift from moment to moment: a kaleidoscope of fragments as seen through the eyes of acquaintances, servants, tradesmen, merchants and street vendors, coloured and shaped by each teller of a tale, each giver of gossip, each recounter of a rumour. What patterns would be, could be, formed from these many shards? In the end, would one pattern lead him to the man - he could no longer think of him as a gentleman, whose greed and unscrupulous dealings put others' lives, possibly innocent lives, at risk - behind the forgery? Would another lead him to Miss Williams? Which design, out of the myriad possibilities born of each turn of the eyepiece, each tumbling of the bits and pieces from these disparate lives and sources, would lead to both?
Chapter 6, Part 4 ~ A Time to Weep and a Time to Laugh
In the several weeks since Jenny's ill-fated tea party, Beth had gone from a certain wariness, when in the company of Mrs. Taylor or Miss Ross, to an uneasy peace. She could not help wondering whether the two women would accept her with their same former good grace, felt she could not expect it, and began to feel the first faint niggling doubts as to her decision to remain from home, and from her uncle. As the days passed with no reproaches, no further attempts at persuading Beth to write to the colonel, and no change in behavior by either, Beth's unease began to fade, and she could almost convince herself that all was as it had been...
Her daily routine was little altered. She helped Mrs. Taylor as she could, and had taken to visiting Miss Rose when she knew that lady was at leisure, and to lend her aid wherever a pair of eyes could be of use. Errands in the village were especially welcome to the teacher, as she found herself confined, in her possible hours of business, to the times Miss Ross, or one of only a few other villagers, could accompany her. Learning to walk with, and guide, Miss Rose had been difficult for them both, calling for a great amount of attention from Beth, and an equally great amount of forbearance from the older woman; but, sufficient progress had been made that walking together had become a welcome diversion for both women.
Today, a commission from Mrs. Taylor took Beth to visit Hobart's shop, an establishment she enjoyed as much for the welcoming cheer of its proprietors as for the colorful and fascinating array of its goods. She entered the draper's shop to find Mrs. Hobart alone, and clearly occupied in a search of some kind. She looked on the counter - removing and replacing a small basket covered with a red cloth - below the counter, on shelves above and around it. She lifted things up to look beneath them, and reached up to feel along high places. From time to time, she stopped to feel in the pockets of her apron. With her spectacles and a look of concern on her face, she most resembled an earnest young Diogenes, though for what she was searching could not be determined by Beth, who waited silently near the door. Phoebe and Julia soon came in and saw their mother's activities.
"Mama, can we help you find something?"
Her mother straightened from her position next some low shelves where she had moved items one by one from left to right, and then back again. Sighing in frustration, she removed her spectacles and placed them in one of the pockets of her capacious apron. "Yes, Julia, that would be most helpful. I have looked 'til I am quite distracted; I simply can not seem to remember where I have put them. Maybe if you look, too, they will show themselves. Do you start with the shelves over there, please," indicating the far wall, as she turned and started her search anew on another table, placed before a window.
At that moment, Miss Goldsmith entered and stood behind Beth, taking in the scene with her sharp eyes. As she turned to greet the seamstress, Beth noticed a look of amusement on her face, and was curious to know the cause of it. The two women moved quietly from the door to stand out of the way, waiting for Mrs. Hobart to be finished, that they might each be helped with the business which brought them today.
"But, what are you looking for, Mama?" asked Phoebe.
"Oh, did I not say? I have looked everywhere, and simply cannot find my spectacles, nor the basket I had prepared for Miss Rose today. It was all ready, and covered with that pretty, red-patterned napkin Miss Ross so fancies. Without my spectacles, I shall be quite lost, and I had promised some things very particularly for Miss Rose to be taken today. She will be most put out, I am sure, if she does not get them." With that, she turned and renewed her search.
Phoebe and Julia looked at each other. The younger girl suggested, "Mama, have you looked in your pockets for your spectacles? Perhaps they are there? You have so many pockets in that apron."
Her mother turned back. "I have looked already, but I will look again; you are quite right, Phoebe. There are many pockets, and I may have easily overlooked one." Reaching in her pockets one by one, and almost turning them inside out in her determination to be thorough, she soon came upon the pair she had so recently placed there. "Oh, there they are, indeed, thank you, girls. Now, if I can only find where that basket is."
Julia lifted the basket from the counter. "Is this the one for Miss Rose, Mama? We can take it along now, if you like, and come right back."
Her mother's face crimsoned with embarrassment, realizing how close before her both items had been the entire time. She nodded, her usually anxious expression suddenly one of misery as well, her voice subdued. "Yes, dear, thank you once again. It should be all ready, so if you would just take it with you..." her voice trailed off as she turned away. Miss Goldsmith, by this time, was almost choking in her attempt to refrain from laughing out loud, while Beth stood, a little puzzled. Mr. Hobart had come into the shop from a storeroom and witnessed this scene. He now crossed the room to where his daughters were standing. They each reached up and gave their mother a kiss before leaving the shop and setting off for the teacher's cottage, bringing a wan smile to her face. Mr. Hobart embraced both girls, as well, as they left, and gave an approving smile. "That's my kind daughter," he whispered, as each left his arms.
Miss Goldsmith and Beth had made their way deeper into the shop during this exchange, and had not noticed the next customer to come in. "Can you imagine such a muddlehead for a mother, or a wife?" whispered Miss Goldsmith to Beth, "She can not seem to remember anything! I don't see how her husband can bear it!" Not waiting for a reply, she turned away, to find Mr. Grahame standing close by. A simpering smile came to her face. "Why, Mr. Grahame. Good day to..." The obvious mark of disapproval on his countenance arrested the words on her lips, though he remained silent. It was now her place to look flustered, as it was become clear that he had heard her earlier words. She flushed, and, turning to Beth again, added hurriedly, in a lower tone, "But, of course she is a very kind and loving woman, and so little else matters, I'm sure." As the look of distaste remained on the clergyman's face, Miss Goldsmith curtseyed quickly before quitting the shop at a clumsy trot, apparently forgetting her purpose for coming, or deeming it now of little consequence, in her haste to escape.
As Miss Goldsmith left, the Hobarts did not seem to notice their two remaining customers. Mrs. Hobart's head was bowed, her hands twisted in her apron, and she struggled unsuccessfully with tears threatening to spill over. Her husband turned to her, taking her hands gently into his own. "What is it, dearest? Surely you do not take Miss Goldsmith's words in earnest! You must pay her no mind; you know how thoughtless she is."
His wife replied quietly, her face still downcast, averted from his, "I can not say why it distresses me so, today; I can usually laugh about such things myself. But... she is right - I am such a muddlehead. I forget so many things - important one, at that. And, I am not accomplished in any other way, either, not even in the simplest of things! If only I were more clever! How you and the children have borne with me so long..." She broke off with a sob, and moved to leave.
Mr. Hobart reached to stop her, and, drawing her into his arms, lifted her face to meet his eyes. He spoke gently but firmly, with a fond look and beguiling smile, "And what would I want with a clever wife, if she were not loving and kind, as you are? When have you ever forgotten to care for me, or for the children? and what is more important than that? What value is there in accomplishments which would make you no better a wife or mother or neighbor? Of what good would cleverness be to Phoebe and Julia - or to Stephen, or to our friends - if it were accompanied by a caustic wit and unkind tongue? We love and value you just as you are, my love, and I could not love you more were you to rival all the scholars at Oxford and Cambridge together, or all the accomplished ladies at St James' Court!"
These heartfelt words were rewarded by a tremulous smile through the tears just shed, and a tender kiss from his wife. "And so do I love you, my dear!" as she lay her head on his shoulder. Throughout this scene, though difficult not to overhear, Mr. Grahame had kept Beth occupied with low queries about her health, and that of Mrs. Taylor and Jenny, and had successfully avoided drawing the Hobarts' attention to their presence. Now, however, as Mrs. Hobart moved to dry her tears and embrace her husband more thoroughly, she caught sight of Beth and the vicar, hovering a little uncertainly in the background. With a small gasp, and a blush o'erspreading her face, she freed herself and disappeared through a doorway behind the counter.
Mr. Hobart, seeming not at all embarrassed, smiled after his wife's disappearing form, then came to greet his customers, with his wide smile now directed at them, followed by a hearty greeting and offers of assistance.
After completing her errand, and having left the shop, Beth thought over the scene she had witnessed. The Hobarts, as a couple, made for an amusing sight - he so round and jolly, she so thin and perpetually anxious - but it was very evident to Beth that they were deeply attached to one another. Their love had apparently not diminished over years of marriage - and perhaps it had even grown? she mused - despite any inconveniences suffered through Mrs. Hobart's forgetfulness and claimed lack of accomplishment.
Mr. Grahame, whose only business had consisted of a question easily answered by the shopkeeper, joined Beth outside, and fell into step with her. The very thoughts Beth had had apparently occupied his mind as well. "What a lovely and loving family they are. I would wish to see more such, where all is kept in perspective, and value is placed on things truly deserving of it."
"They do seem to be very happy," ventured Beth, still shy about speaking her mind in the presence of this man, whose good opinion she was longing to have, though certain that, whatever it might be at present, it would soon be low indeed. She was also unsure of what rumours or gossip, even now, were circulating about her. Glancing down, she gave silent thanks for the current style of dress, which allowed for a multitude of sins - and shapes - to be covered. Thus far, certain of discretion on the parts of Miss Ross and Mrs. Taylor, she felt sure that so much, at least, of her secret remained unknown. This happy situation would not continue indefinitely - of that one fact Beth was in no doubt whatsoever. She sighed, returning her attention to her companion, eager to hear more of his thoughts, or even, perhaps, the history involving the loss of his arm.
She was disappointed, however, as further discussion between them, on any topic, was prevented by a commotion which began at the far end of the village, and which was rapidly making its way toward them. As they both turned in its direction, little was to be seen, at first, other than a cloud of dust, and little heard, save some indistinct treble cries and shouts, and the ringing and clashing of metal. The cloud was soon resolved into several figures, led by a small dog, racing on enormous feet, bearing an extraordinarily long tail, made of extraordinary materials. As the creature neared, the tail could be distinguished as a variegated article comprised of a stout clothesline, complete with garments of varying shapes and types still attached, and what looked to be several pots and pans. The two nearest figures were now seen to be Phoebe and Julia Hobart, with another person lagging far behind, still too distant to be recognized. Mr. Grahame acted quickly, and, as the dog neared, reached down and managed to trap the animal and prevent its continued flight.
As soon as they caught up to the creature, and even before they had found enough breath to speak, the girls began to disentangle it from its 'tail.' Mr. Grahame joined in the effort as best he could, and, with Beth's added help, the small animal, who had seemed not in the least bothered by its noisy and cumbersome appendage, was soon freed. As they worked, unknotting rope, untangling material, and detaching wooden clothespins and metal pans, a fragmented history of the chase took shape, spilling from each girl in turn.
"We were coming back from Miss Rose's cottage--"
"She let us go through her garden--"
"So we could pick some flowers for Mama--"
"And this sweet dog came racing by--"
"We tried to stop him--"
"But he ran into Miss Goldsmith's garden--"
"And stole all her things!"
The remaining person in the chase had neared during the task of freeing the animal, and arrived to witness its completion: a most furious Miss Goldsmith, who had no trace of her earlier discomfiture, neither anything of composure, about her. Her clothes were in complete disarray; her light hair had escaped its pins, clinging hotly about her face and neck, straggling down her back. Her bonnet, hanging by its ribbons, caught and pulled from her head by a passing branch, was now unhappily decorated with thorns and dried leaves. One side of her dress was covered with mud, where she had slipped and fallen in an inconveniently-situated puddle. For a few moments, she simply stood, gasping for breath, recovering from the unwonted exercise.
"I'll... I'll teach that mangy thing... a lesson, I will. That's... the fourth time it's stolen and made... a jumble of my things. Today it led me... a merry chase around half the village! It's trespassing... and a nuisance... and should be shot! I will be speaking... to Lord Auldbury about it... directly!"
"You can't do that, Miss Goldsmith! He didn't mean it, I'm sure," cried Phoebe.
Julia chimed in with, "Just look at the poor thing. He looks so sorry. He's just playful, very young and maybe hungry."
Miss Goldsmith ignored the girls' pleading, and continued in her diatribe against the dog - her laboured breathing weakening its vehemence - while they tried to convince her of its innocence. Only the approach of two riders on horseback stilled this verbal hubbub. The first, Lord Auldbury, courteously greeted each person in the assembled group. He looked on in surprise, as Miss Goldsmith - with face further reddened, suddenly conscious of the personal nature of some of the items on the purloined clothesline - dropped to her knees to gather and bundle her belongings as quickly as possible. She reached for delicately made things, with frills and lace in abundance, and less delicate, more worn items, for knobby garments and bulky ones, all now stained by grass and dirt. She clutched them to her bosom, endeavoring vainly to hide their nature from the eyes of her company, waving away offers of assistance from Mr. Grahame.
The second rider, a well-looking young man not yet known to Beth, dismounted and neared, nodding to the assembled group, leading his horse behind him. No sooner had he set one foot on the ground than he was surrounded by the two girls, and appealed to most vigorously.
"Stephen will help us train him so he won't do this again, won't you, Stephen?" begged Julia, while Phoebe added confidently, "You can teach us all about how to make him behave!" As they continued to beg and plead and utter phrases of utmost assurance, both speaking at once, Stephen held his hands at his ears, as if to mute the clamor.
"Just a moment, girls! Hush, please! What are you speaking of? Whose dog is this, and what have I to do with it? One at a time now; Phoebe-bird, let Juliet begin, and then you may speak," he commanded. Lord Auldbury, Mr. Grahame and Beth looked on and listened in some amusement to the story that, despite the young man's charge, continued to tumble incoherently from both girls' lips.
Miss Goldsmith, by this time, had secured all her belongings in a clumsy bundle, with the most presentable article serving as a covering of sorts. She had awkwardly gotten to her feet again, with the now-welcome assistance of Mr. Grahame, and made herself heard above the girls' voices. "This dog is a menace to the village; it steals and destroys private property, and is dreadfully noisy. Who knows what diseases it may carry! I demand that it be destroyed, my lord," appealing to Lord Auldbury.
"No!" cried the girls in unison. "You can't shoot our dog!" Julia dropped to her knees to put her arms protectively around the creature; she and the dog looked up, each with large, pleading eyes, the animal's twinkling up at his audience as if to proclaim his innocence of all wrongdoing, his contrition at any inadvertent mishap, and his desire and determination to be forgiven and loved.
Stephen, in the midst of examining the dog more closely, cocked an eyebrow at each girl in turn, "Your dog? Do Mama and Papa know of this?"
"Well..." Phoebe looked down to study her shoes, shuffling her feet in the dust of the road before raising her head to meet the young man's eyes. "He seems to have no home; and, if you help us train him, I'm sure Mama and Papa will let us keep him! We really need a dog at home, especially now you are gone. Please, Stephen, please do say you will help us!" Her beseeching tone and appealing smile were difficult to resist.
Mr. Grahame took over the dog again from Beth, who had held it while the vicar had assisted Miss Goldsmith. Pulling it gently from Julia's almost smothering embrace, and looking it over with a practiced eye, he joined in the discussion as well. "You know, I have been considering keeping a dog myself. If the Hobarts can not take him in, perhaps I shall, if Stephen thinks he might be a worthwhile animal."
Still seated atop his horse, from which vantage point he had observed the proceedings with the smallest of smiles twitching at his lips, Lord Auldbury observed, "Unless he has done irreparable damage, or proves to be vicious or diseased, it would be a shame to seal his doom so young. He looks to have good bloodlines somewhere in his past. If he truly has no home, and if Mr. Grahame or the Hobarts choose to keep him, I am sure he will be well-trained and no longer allowed to bother you, Miss Goldsmith. Perhaps you would be willing to grant him one more chance?"
At these marked comments, all in the dog's favor, Miss Goldsmith saw that her position held no merit in this company. She reluctantly agreed to Lord Auldbury's proposal. Seeing, too, that she was once again at odds with an opinion of Mr. Grahame's - with his lordship's as well - that she was no longer of any importance in the discussion - nor, in truth, at all wanted - she turned and, without a word, began slowly making her way down the street, to return to her cottage, her recovered belongings and clothesline hanging from her arms. A few items straggled from the bundle to trail in the dust of the road, looking as bedraggled and dejected as the lady herself.
Stephen watched Miss Goldsmith depart, then addressed the girls, who waited with bated breath for his words. "He does seem to be a fine animal, and healthy, though a little thin, probably not more than six months old. We shall see what Mama and Papa have to say. But, a fine beginning to your guardianship of the dog would be for you to help repair the damage he has done. Miss Goldsmith, I am sure, would like some help in untangling and washing her things again. It might go a long way in softening her anger toward this little one, as well as showing Mama and Papa that you are serious about, and ready for, such a responsibility. I will tell them where you have gone." His encouraging smile rendered his words less a command than wise counsel, which counsel was seconded by a nod from Mr. Grahame and an approving look from Lord Auldbury. The girls' joy at their brother's tentative approval was tempered by the suggestion he had made. They looked at each other and sighed, before trudging down the road in reluctant pursuit of the seamstress.
Mr. Grahame called after them, "I will take the animal with me for the time being. We may speak with your parents later this evening." He added quietly, addressing Lord Auldbury, "I will inquire whether anyone in the neighborhood claims this rascal as their own."
Throughout all this discussion, Beth had kept silence, amused at, yet sorry for, the predicament of Miss Goldsmith, and admiring of the way this Stephen and Mr. Grahame had, between them, dealt with the situation. She was also a little surprised that Lord Auldbury had not exerted more of his own authority, rather allowing the younger men to deal with the girls and woman as they saw fit. Mr. Grahame, recalling her presence, now introduced her to Stephen Hobart. After a polite greeting, "Good day, miss. Hannah has spoken of you," and a nod to Beth, the young man remounted his horse with an easy, graceful motion. He and Lord Auldbury continued on their way, pausing briefly at the draper's shop.
"That young man has a way with animals, Miss Beth, a true gift. In my five years here, I have yet to see a horse or a dog that would not behave for him. The horse he is riding today has only been under saddle for three months, and see how quietly it stood despite the fuss, even with the dog and children present. Lord Auldbury is fortunate to have someone so skilled, and he recognizes it. Stephen has already been given great responsibilities, and has not disappointed."
Beth's curiosity rose with such a tribute, and made her bold enough to ask, "Is he really brother to Phoebe and Julia? They seem so much younger than he. I have not yet seen him here in the village; does he not live with the family?"
"He is indeed some years older than they, ten or so years older than Julia, I believe. It has made little difference in their fondness for him, though, or in his for them. They dote on him, and he has always had a special care for them. I do believe they miss each other sorely now that he is living on the grounds of the Hall. But, his responsibilities are there now, and keep him much occupied. I am not surprised you had not yet met him, for he now rarely has the time to wander where and when he pleases. He is no longer a carefree young lad. I do wonder, though, if he will have the time to help with this ragamuffin dog," looking down at the animal he still held captive, and who now seemed quite content to sniff at the vicar's clothing and arm, while wagging a banner-like tail, as if to bestow his general approbation on this gentleman. "Well, this has proved a day of interesting diversions, has it not, Miss Beth?" with a grin and a twinkle in his eyes. "But, I think I must take this one home now, before he takes it into his head to rob someone else of their wash, or their dinner!"